Puppet on a Chain (8 page)

And all the time his subordinates probably thought that he was just their lucky superior with no other thought or concern in his mind than to put as many malefactors behind bars as possible. Sympathetic comment and commiseration were never my forte, so I said: 'This addiction -- when did it start?'

'God knows. Years ago. Years before my brother found out.'

'Some of those hypo punctures are recent.'

'She's on withdrawal treatment. Too many injections, you would say?'

'I would say.'

'Herta watches her like a hawk. Every morning she takes her to the Vondel Park -- she loves to feed the birds. In the afternoon Trudi sleeps. But sometimes in the evening Herta gets tired -- and I am often from home in the evening.'

'You've had her watched?'

'A score of times. I don't know how it's done.'

'They get at her to get at you?'

'To bring pressure to bear on me. What else? She has no money to pay for fixes. They are fools and do not realize that I must see her die slowly before my eyes before I can compromise myself. So they keep trying.'

'You could have a twenty-four-hour guard placed on her.'

'And then that would make it official. Such an official request is brought to the automatic notice of the health authorities. And then?'

'An institution,' I nodded. 'For the mentally retarded. And she'd never come out again.'

'She'd never come out again.'

I didn't know what to say except goodbye, so I did that and left.

CHAPTER FOUR

I spent the afternoon in my hotel room going over the carefully documented and cross-indexed files and case histories which Colonel de Graaf's office had given me. They covered every known case of drug-taking and drug prosecutions, successful or not, in Amsterdam in the past two years. They made very interesting reading if, that is, your interest lay in death and degradation and suicide and broken homes and ruined careers. But there was nothing in it for me. I spent a useless hour trying to rearrange and reassemble the various cross-indexes but no significant pattern even began to emerge. I gave up. Highly trained minds like de Graaf's and van Gelder's would have spent many, many hours in the same fruitless pastime, and if they had failed to establish any form of pattern there was no hope for me.

In the early evening I went down to the foyer and handed in my key. The smile of the assistant manager behind the desk lacked a little of the sabre-toothed quality of old, it was deferential, even apologetic: he'd obviously been told to try a new tack with me.

'Good evening, good evening, Mr Sherman.' An affable ingratiation that I cared for even less than his normal approach. 'I'm afraid I must have sounded a little abrupt last evening, but you see -- '

'Don't mention it, my dear fellow, don't mention it.' I wasn't going to let any old hotel manager outdo me in affability. 'It was perfectly understandable in the circumstances. Must have come as a very great shock to you.' I glanced through the foyer doors at the falling rain. 'The guide-books didn't mention this.'

He smiled widely as if he hadn't heard the same inane remark a thousand times before, then said cunningly: 'Hardly the night for your English constitutional, Mr Sherman.'

'No chance anyway. It's Zaandam for me tonight.' 'Zaandam.' He made a face. 'My commiserations, Mr Sherman.' He evidently knew a great deal more about Zaandam than I did, which was hardly surprising as I'd just picked the name from a map.

I went outside. Rain or no rain, the barrel-organ was still grinding and screeching away at the top of its form. It was Puccini who was on the air tonight and he was taking a terrible beating. I crossed to the organ and stood there for some time, not so much listening to the music, for there was none to speak of, but looking without seeming to look at a handful of emaciated and ill-dressed teen-agers -- a rare sight indeed in Amsterdam where they don't go in for emaciation very much -- who leaned their elbows on the barrel-organ and seemed lost in rapture. My thoughts were interrupted by a gravelly voice behind me.

'Mynheer likes music?' I turned. The ancient was smiling at me in a tentative sort of fashion. 'I love music.'

'So do I, so do I.' I peered at him closely, for in the nature of things his time must be close and there could be no forgiveness for that remark. I smiled at him, one music-lover to the other.

'I shall think of you tonight. I'm going to the opera.' 'Mynheer is kind.'

I dropped two coins in the tin can that had mysteriously appeared under my nose. 'Mynheer is too kind.'

Having the suspicions I did about him, I thought the same myself, but I smiled charitably and, recrossing the street, nodded to the doorman: with the masonic legerdemain known only to doormen, he materialized a taxi out of nowhere. I told him 'Schiphol Airport' and got inside.

We moved off. We did not move off alone. At the first traffic lights, twenty yards from the hotel, I glanced through the tinted rear window. A yellow-striped Mercedes taxi was two cars behind us, a taxi I recognized as one that habitually frequented the rank not far from the hotel. But it could have been coincidence. The lights turned to green and we made our way into the Vijzelstraat. So did the yellow-striped Mercedes.

I tapped the driver on the shoulder. 'Stop here, please. I want to buy some cigarettes.' I got out. The Mercedes was right behind us, stopped. No one got in, no one got out. I went into an hotel foyer, bought some cigarettes I didn't need and came out again. The Mercedes was still there. We moved off and after a few moments I said to the driver: Turn right along the Prinsengracht.'

He protested. 'That is not the way to Schiphol.'

'It's the way I want to go. Turn right.'

He did and so did the Mercedes.

'Stop.' He stopped. The Mercedes stopped. Coincidence was coincidence but this was ridiculous. I got out, walked back to the Mercedes and opened the door. The driver was a small man with a shiny blue suit and a disreputable air. 'Good evening. Are you for hire?'

'No.' He looked me up and down, trying out first the air of easy insouciance, then that of insolent indifference, but he wasn't right for either part.

'Then why are you stopped?'

'Any law against a man stopping for a smoke?'

'None. Only you're not smoking. You know the Police HQ in the Marnixstraat?' The sudden lack of enthusiasm in his expression made it quite clear that he knew it all too well. 'I suggest you go there and ask for either Colonel de Graaf or Inspector van Gelder and tell them that you have a complaint to lodge about Paul Sherman, Room 616, Hotel Excelsior.'

'Complaint?' he said warily. What complaint?'

'Tell them that he took the car keys from your ignition and threw them into the canal.' I took the car keys from the ignition and threw them into the canal and a very satisfactory plop they made too as they vanished for ever into the depths of the Prinsengracht. 'Don't follow me around,' I said and closed the door in a manner befitting the end of our brief interview, but Mercedes are well made cars and the door didn't fall off.

Back in my own taxi I waited till we were back on the main road again, then stopped the taxi. 'I've decided to walk,' I said and paid what was owing.

'What! To Schiphol?'

I gave him the sort of tolerant smile one might expect to receive from a long-distance walker whose prowess has been called in question, waited till he had moved from sight, hopped on a 16 tram and got off at the Dam. Belinda, dressed in a dark coat and with a dark scarf over her blonde hair, was waiting for me in the tram shelter. She looked damp and cold.

'You're late,' she said accusingly.

'Never criticize your boss, even by implication. The managerial classes always have things to attend to.'

We crossed the square, retracing the steps the grey man and I had taken the previous night, down the alley by the Krasnapolsky and along the tree-lined Oudezijds Voorburgwal, an area that is one of the cultural highlights of Amsterdam, but Belinda seemed in no mood for culture. A mercurial girl, she seemed withdrawn and remote that night, and the silence was hardly companionable. Belinda had something on her mind and if I were beginning to become any judge of Belinda my guess was that she would let me know about it sooner rather than later. I was right.

She said abruptly: 'We don't really exist for you, do we?'

'Who doesn't exist?'

'Me, Maggie, all the people who work for you. We're just ciphers.'

'Well, you know how it is,' I said pacifically. 'Ship's captain never mingles socially with the crew.'

That's what I mean. That's what I say -- we don't really exist for you. We're just puppets to be manipulated so that the master puppeteer can achieve certain ends. Any other puppets would do as well.'

I said mildly: 'We're here to do very nasty and unpleasant jobs and achieving that end is all that matters. Personalities don't enter into it. You forget that I am your boss, Belinda. I really don't think that you should be talking to me like that.'

'I'll talk to you any way I like.' Not only mercurial but a girl of spirit; Maggie would never have dreamed of talking to me like that. She considered her last remark, then said more quietly: 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken like that. But do you have to treat us in this -- this detached and remote fashion and never make contact with us? We are people, you know -- but not for you. You'd pass me in the street tomorrow and not recognize me. You don't notice us.'

'Oh, I notice all right. Take yourself, for instance.' I carefully refrained from looking at her as we walked along although I knew she was observing me pretty closely. 'New girl to Narcotics. Limited experience Deuxieme Bureau, Paris. Dressed in navy coat, navy scarf spotted with little white edelweiss, knitted white knee-stockings, sensible flat-heeled navy shoes, buckled, five feet four, a figure, to quote a famous American writer, to make a bishop kick a hole through a stained-glass window, a quite beautiful face, platinum blonde hair that looks like spun silk when the sun shines through it, black eyebrows, green eyes, perceptive and, best of all, beginning to worry about her boss, especially his lack of humanity. Oh, I forgot. Cracked finger-nail polish, third finger, left hand, and a devastating smile enhanced -- if, that is to say, that's possible -- by a slightly crooked left upper eye-tooth.'

'Wow!' She was at a momentary loss for words, which I was beginning to guess was not at all in character. She glanced at the finger-nail in question and the polish was cracked, then turned to me with a smile that was just as devastating as I'd said it was. 'Maybe you do at that.'

'Do at what?'

'Care about us.'

'Of course I care.' She was beginning to confuse me with Sir Galahad and that could be a bad thing. 'All my operatives, Category Grade 1, young, female, good-looking, are like daughters to me.'

There was a long pause, then she murmured something, very sotto voice indeed, but it sounded to me very like 'Yes, Papa.'

'What was that?' I asked suspiciously.

'Nothing. Nothing at all.'

We turned into the street which housed the premises of Morgenstern and Muggenthaler. This, my second visit to the place, more than confirmed the impression I had formed the previous night. It seemed darker than ever, bleaker and more menacing, cobbles and pavement more cracked than before, the gutters more choked with litter. Even the gabled houses leaned closer towards one another: this time tomorrow and they would be touching.

Belinda stopped abruptly and clutched my right arm. I glanced at her. She was staring upwards, her eyes wide, and I followed her gaze where the gabled warehouses marched away into the diminishing distance, their hoisting beams clearly silhouetted against the night sky. I knew she felt there was evil abroad: I felt it myself.

'This must be the place,' she whispered. 'I know it must be.'

'This is the place,' I said matter-of-factly. 'What's wrong?'

She snatched her hand away as if I had just said something wounding, but I regained it, tucked her arm under mine and held on firmly to her hand. She made no attempt to remove it.

'It's -- it's so creepy. What are those horrible things sticking out under the gables?'

'Hoisting beams. In the old days the houses here were rated on the width of the frontage, so the thrifty Dutch made their houses uncommonly narrow. Unfortunately, this made their staircases even narrower still. So, the hoisting beams for the bulky stuff -- grand pianos up, coffins down, that sort of thing.'

'Stop it!' She lifted her shoulders and shuddered involuntarily. 'This is a horrible place. Those beams -- they're like the gallows they hang people from. This is a place where people come to d
ie.
'

'Nonsense, my dear girl,' I said heartily. I could feel stiletto-tipped fingers of ice play Chopin's Death March up and down my spine and was suddenly filled with longing for that dear old nostalgic music from the barrel-organ outside the Rembrandt: I was probably as glad to hang on to Belinda's hand as she was to mine. 'You mustn't fall prey to those Gallic imaginings of yours.'

'I'm not imagining things,' she said somberly, then shivered again. 'Did we have to come to this awful place?' She was shivering violently now, violently and continuously, and though it was cold it wasn't as cold as all that.

'Can you remember the way we came?' I asked. She nodded, puzzled and I went on: 'You make your way back to the hotel and I'll join you later.'

'Back to the hotel?' She was still puzzled, 'I'll be all right. Now, off you go.'

She tore her hand free from mine and before I could realize what was happening she was gripping both my lapels in her hands and giving me a look that was clearly designed to shrivel me on the spot. If she was shaking now it was with anger: I'd never realized that so beautiful a girl could look so furious. 'Mercurial' was no word for Belinda, just a pale and innocuous substitute for the one I really wanted. I looked down at the fists gripping my lapels. The knuckles were white. She was actually trying to shake me.

'Don't ever say anything like that to me again.' She was furious, no doubt about it.